The Adventure of the Family Honor
by Menolly Mark
Summary: To be perfectly frank, Watson, says Holmes, I find the entire matter rather degoutant. Holmes undertakes a case which goes from the personal, to the practical, and back to the personal, ending in a risk that Holmes is not prepared to take.
1. Chapter One: A Note from Mycroft

**The Adventure of the Family Honor**

By R. Porlock

**Author's note:**

I have to ask that if you do read and especially if you enjoy the beginning to this story, please review and let me know how you felt about it. There is so much more where this came from, and considerably more to this particular case at least, but I have no interest in providing you with it if you have no interest in reading it. If you would like to hear the rest, please take the time to drop a little note in my review spot there and let me know. I'd appreciate it more than you know.

**Chapter One: A Letter from Mr. Mycroft Holmes**

One evening in November, quite some time after the heart-stopping events of the Adventure of the Empty House had ceased to occupy every corner of my brain, I found myself roused from slumber by the mournful sounds of a violin being played in the downstairs rooms.

Half-reluctantly, I rose from my bed, and pulled on the almost threadbare dressing gown which my late wife had made for me at least two years previously. Though it was sorely in need of repair or replacement, I had refused for some time to wear anything else, even when I had been made a present of a new dressing gown by the sweetly sympathetic Mrs. Cecil Forrester.

Thus dressed, I descended the stairs, and found, as I had expected, my friend and housemate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes folded up in his armchair, violin in hand, having apparently, judging by the disheveled state of his clothes and hair, been lying silently there for some time.

I had known Holmes to sit up late at night many a time before, when lost deep in thought, or when in the middle of a particularly tricky problem. There was something about this deep and gloomy silence, however, that disturbed me. This was neither an exhibition of his occasional frustrated torpor, or of the coiled quiet attitude which arose form his deeper periods of reflection. This was instead a darker, more genuine depression, and so I read by my friend's expression.

"Holmes," I murmured, drawing a chair up beside his own, and trying to catch his eye, which was fixed past my shoulder at the blank wall across from the armchair. "You look ill," I noted. "Perhaps it is best for you to get upstairs to bed and to leave the instrument for tonight. You're as pale as a ghost."

"Am I?" Holmes asked in a dull voice. "I suppose it is rather late for all of that." He looked up at me, raising one thin eyebrow at my concerned expression. "Have I woken you? No," he chuckled. "You're accustomed enough to my irregular habits by now. You were awake already." He reached out with the long fingers of one hand, and ran the fabric of the corner of my dressing gown through his hand against his palm. I thought he might say something, but he seemed to have no desire to comment after all. Instead, he settled back into the chair, and reached across himself to the low table, where I could now see there was lying a folded piece of paper. Holmes took it up, regarded it distastefully for a moment, and then passed it over to me in a languid yet insistent gesture.

I took the proffered document, and, unfolding it, read it quietly aloud out of habit.

It was a letter, addressed to my friend, which read as follows:

"My dear Sherlock,

I am aware of how busy you no doubt are at the moment, what with the murder of Sir Charleston, and all such related hubbub. I am therefore loathe to disturb you, and yet-"

After the "and yet" the color of the ink changed, as if there had been a particular pause before the author had decided to continue the letter, and had needed to replace his ink in the meantime.

"And yet," it continued, "I feel that this circumstance and occasion warrants some particular liberties. I should like very much more than you know to see you tomorrow at four o'clock at the Diogenes Club, for the sake of escorting you to my rooms at Pall Mall. There, I would be most honored to introduce you to Miss Anne Fairchild. If you would be so accommodating as to meet me, I shall see you then.

Best regards as always,

Yours,

Mycroft Holmes."

I read the letter with some stirrings of interest. It was a rare thing that Mr. Mycroft Holmes should ask my admittedly very well renowned companion for any sort of assistance. It must mean, I reasoned, that something of particular peculiarity was afoot.

I was surprised, therefore, to discover that my reading of the letter had only further deepened Holmes' melancholy. He regarded me like a man would who had just watched his wife leave him out of the front door, taking with her all of his possessions and funds.

"Surely," I attempted hesitantly, "this is a summons that heralds some sort of case that Mycroft finds himself unable to get his own head around. He wishes to consult you in the matter, and you lie despondent and unresponsive in the face of his plea. I hardly expect that you'll ignore the requests of your own brother, who has so often before come to your immediate aid when called on." I planted my hands on my hips in what I intended to be a remonstrative manner, but Holmes chuckled ruefully, and waved my unspoken criticisms away with his still outstretched hand.

"My dear Watson," he began, fixing me with a darkly amused look, "I suspect that I shall derive no pleasure from anything that Mycroft has to say to me on this matter." He sighed, and pushed the paper, which I had replaced on the table, as far away from him as he could, as if the thing's very presence was offensive to him. "Still," he continued, "as you say, I can hardly refuse Mycroft anything, but to be perfectly frank, I find the entire matter rather degoutant."

"And why," I asked, somewhat peeved at my friend's seeming ingratitude, "should you be so very reluctant?"

"Because," replied Holmes, leaning forward in the armchair and fixing me with a more awake-looking stare than I had received so far this evening, "I am to make the fraternal acquaintance of a woman whom, knowing Mycroft as I only I can say that I really do, I shall not have the acquaintance, or the good will, of for very long."

I was somewhat taken aback by this interpretation of the situation. It had honestly not occurred to me that the matter was of such a delicate and intimate nature as Holmes seemed to imply. "You think then," I demanded, "that the request is of a more personal nature, rather than a professional one?"

Holmes smiled. "I know it," he said curtly.

"You've deduced it, then?" I insisted, still unconvinced by the extremely businesslike tone of the letter that Holmes was on the right track this time.

My friend was silent for a few moments, which I took to mean that he did not believe that I would be capable of following his reasoning in his case. He regarded the letter, folded on the table, with a dour, displeased expression, which after a moment's speculation, resolved itself into one of resignation.

"Well, then, Watson," he said finally, with the air of a man who has made up his mind at long last, "it seems that we shall have to go to the Diogenes Club tomorrow afternoon, if you would be so kind as to accompany me there."

"Certainly," I agreed, although I was a bit puzzled at the request. "However, if your surmise is correct, and you are only going to meet a young woman to whom your brother is partial, I don't anticipate there being any danger involved."

Sherlock Holmes started to laugh, so that I feared he would wake the landlady with his sudden vigor. "Watson," he declared, much more jovially than before, "when I once said to you that I should only ask for your most valued assistance in times of real danger, I erred."

He rose, and, shaking off his former dark lassitude, strode for the door to his own bedroom.

"No," he said over his shoulder to me as he left, "I believe all that all that is in danger in ths instance is my pride."


	2. Chapter Two: A Meeting of Malice

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry that the chapters are so short. I (honestly) have a visual impairment which makes it very difficult for me to write for long periods of time. There will be just as much story, but it will come in smaller chunks, so that I can use the time that I have to both write and edit one chapter before I submit it.

Also, thank you to **euphoracle** for the review! As Sherlock Holmes says here, ask, and perhaps you shall receive!

**Chapter Two: A Meeting of Malice**

Much to my chagrin, Sherlock Holmes was in no better a mood by the time we set out on foot for the Diogenes Club the next afternoon. He tramped along beside me in silence, deaf, apparently, to all of my coaxing comments about the weather or the latest sensational headlines in the papers.

The only time Holmes ventured to make any really invested comment was when I made the mistake of speculating about Miss Fairchild herself, the woman whom my friend was convinced had designs on his brother, and perhaps the other way around as well.

"She must be quote the rare intellectual," I pondered aloud, "to have captured Mycroft Holmes' attentions enough for him to ask you to meet her. Undoubtedly she's a formidable conversationalist, at least."

"On the contrary," brooded Holmes, never taking his eyes off of the pavement on which we walked. "My croft, as I have said before, and as you should well know, is hardly a man who enjoys such mental stimulation as much as I do. She's just as likely to be a taciturn toy of a girl, subjected to listening to his every speculation, however complex or correct, without giving him any reason to move from his chair."

"And yet, he'd never entertain the idea of keeping such a woman, or taking her to wife," I interjected.

Holmes shrugged diffidently. "We shall see," was all he said, before lapsing into another of his impenetrable silences.

Rather than succumb to his gloom, I attempted to rise above it and to amuse myself with my own thoughts for some time as we walked. I shortly found myself, however, having exhausted the interest I had maintained in the enigmatic Miss Fairchild, and I had nothing to do but to continue my attempts to engage Holmes in conversation, and to endure his sour-toned commentary.

It was with some disgust, and a great deal of relief, then, that I found us having reached the Diogenes Club. Upon entering the building, Holmes made a few quiet inquiries, and was soon directed to the spot where brother Mycroft was seated, awaiting our arrival.

He greeted me cordially enough, when he spotted us, and received Holmes with an effusion of pleasure that I had not believed Sherlock Holmes' brother capable of.

"I am very glad to see you," he kept saying, ringing my companions hand even as he tried to keep his voice down so as not to disturb the other club patrons. "Really, I am just delighted to see you, my dear Sherlock, and yourself, Doctor Watson, what a pleasurable surprise."

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," I replied, smiling at being so enthusiastically welcomed. Holmes, on the other hand, said nothing at all, but relaxed some of his cold demeanor at Mycroft's obvious delight.

"Honestly," Mycroft was saying, as we abandoned the club and headed across the street to Mycroft's own nearby rooms. "I believed you wouldn't come. As I had no response from you by noon today, I was quite sure you'd decided that it wasn't in your best interests to show at all."

"I had," returned Holmes, with a little shrug, as we ascended a set of stairs outside Mycroft's Pall Mall home.

Mycroft, somewhat to my surprise, chuckled at this rather nasty remark. "I thought as much," he said, opening the door, and showing us in with a gesturing, gentlemanly hand.

"It was the good doctor," Holmes continued, taking an un-offered seat at Mycroft's table, "who took your part in the business. I have difficulty refusing any earnest request of Doctor Watson's, considering the numerous times I have dragged him out of bed at night to join me on the chase."

Mycroft said nothing, but only smiled approvingly at me. I recognized in Holmes statement the same logic that I had used the previous night to convince him of the necessity of answering his brother's call. I allowed myself a moment of pride that the great logician should use my very words.

"May I over you a cigar?" My croft asked, glancing between Holmes and myself as if desperate to get past the formalities of our visit. Noticing this urgency, I declined, but Holmes took some calculated time in selecting and lighting his own.

After having taken sufficient pains to be as politely generous with time as he could, Mycroft Holmes observed that his brother and myself were quite comfortably settled in. Practically swaying on his feet in his uncharacteristic eagerness, he leaned in towards Sherlock Holmes.

"If you 'd just wait right here," said Mycroft, regaining his composure as best he could in the face of Sherlock's obvious disapprobation, "I'll go fetch the lady in question downstairs for you."

With one last securing glance in our direction, then, he started up the stairs, until he was out of view of Holmes and myself. We could hear him tramping around his bedroom, his footfalls heavy with his significant bulk. A woman's voice answered him when he called, and Sherlock Holmes sighed resignedly, readjusting his long legs in the chair as he watched the stairs expectantly.

"You know, Watson," he reflected, between puffs of his cigar, turning to face me, "I don't believe I've ever seen my brother so excited, so…discommoded in my life."

"Perhaps," I suggested, "Your life could use something of the same."

Holmes shook his head, again with one of his queer philosopher's smiles.

"No, Watson, for all of your suggestions and implications, I do not believe that any woman could make me happy." He paused, and listened for a moment to the conversation that could still be heard from the room above. "I don't actually think," he continued after a moment, "that I shall ever be a really happy man at all."

Somewhat shocked, I narrowed my eyes at this grandiose statement. "What a ghastly thing to say," I replied and left it at that, turning away from him.

Holmes shook his head and smiled arrestingly. "I'm terribly sorry to have disturbed you," he said, nodding apologetically at me. "All I meant by that was that a happy man is a satisfied man, and a satisfied man is a complacent one." He paused, and shrugged his shoulders. "One thing I shall never be, Watson," he finished, "is a complacent man."

I puzzled over this peculiar statement for several minutes, watching Holmes drumming his fingers impatiently against the arms of his chair. I couldn't fathom the idea that happiness, or therefore the fulfillment that I had once felt myself to have obtained in my own life, would be so little desired in any man's eyes.

It was at that moment that Mycroft Holmes appeared again in the doorway. Standing as proudly erect as he could, he stepped a little aside to allow entrance to a woman, seemingly a tiny creature when dwarfed by his own significant person.

She was pale, wiry, and slim, with small, eager black eyes, and an abundance of very curly black hair, hair which took up most of the space Mycroft had allowed for her.

She was wearing a long, attractively cut violent dress, and held in her right hand a hat, which, I thought, would have done wonders to take her wild locks, although she never once thought to put it on. She looked, in fact, to my more whimsical eye, quite a bit like a fairy from a child's bedtime story, trying to fit into a corner of modern England.

Mycroft shared a glance with the girl, and then beamed at the two of us.

"May I present," he announced, "Miss Anne Fairchild." He glanced back and forth between us for a moment, and then, apparently noticing the error in his introductions, turned back to Miss Fairchild. "And this," he continued to her, "is Doctor Watson, and my brother, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of whom I've so oft spoken."

"Charmed, I'm sure," drawled Holmes from his chair. I rose to my feet, and inclined my head politely at the lady, who was still watching my companion with a disappointed expression on her face.

"Miss Fairchild," continued Mycroft, seemingly ignoring Sherlock Holmes' attitude towards the newcomer, "has agreed to become my wife."

Having expected this, after all the pomp and circumstance he had put us through about meeting her, I smiled in the friendliest and most welcoming fashion I could. "A pleasure to meet you," I said.

Miss Fairchild smiled hesitantly at me in turn, apparently appreciative of my cordial attempts. "And you, Doctor Watson," she said. "I've heard such stories. Mycroft obviously holds you in some very high esteem."

She then turned her gaze on my friend, and I thought I noticed a little sparkle of malice in her eye. "And of course " she continued, "the great Sherlock Holmes himself. Wait till I inform my mother of the fact that I've met you in person. Why, you're almost a household name."

There was something in her phrasing of the statement that gave it the appearance of praise, without being of at all genuinely complimentary. Seeing Holmes' grimace of surprise and the subsequent look of satisfaction in Miss Fairchild's eyes, I began to feel a bit less than welcoming towards her.

"Actually, my dear Sherlock," stated Mycroft abruptly, apparently feeling that it was time for a change of atmosphere, "I had been hoping to ask you about something that has been plaguing me since you sent me that cut out of the column of the paper last Tuesday."

Holmes' countenance brightened, and he tore his attention away from Miss Fairchild to his brother's entreating face. "Very good, then. Ask, and perhaps, you shall receive." He settled himself back into his chair as if awaiting Mycroft's narrative.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, and Sherlock started towards him, from where he had been sitting passively all this time. At this moment, however, Miss Fairchild leaned towards Mycroft, and pressed her dainty face up to his ear, whispering something hushed and hurried.

A look of doubt and consternation seized Mycroft's features, and he looked from the woman, to his brother, and then back again. Finally, with a little apologetic half-smile at Holmes and myself, he shook his head.

"Never mind," he said dismissively, "it is nothing."

My companion blinked. "Surely," he said, "having brought it up in the first place, you will wish to follow through with it."

Mycroft shrugged. "A better thought has convinced me not to trouble you after all," he said, and we could see plainly from his set and yet pleasant expression that neither pleas nor persuasions would budge him on the subject.

At this, Sherlock Holmes seethed, so much that his barely controlled outrage started to tinge his face a darker hue. It took him several minutes to regain himself, although he did do so, with some effort likely noticed only by myself who knew him best. He took a calculated breath, and turned his deeply frustrated gaze on me, at which point I decided it was just about time for us to go.

"I'm afraid that we really must be going," I said, with that goal in mind. I spoke as politely and innocently as I could. "We have got appointments and pressing meetings of our own to make and meet, you know, and I believe that there is a client now waiting for your brother at Baker Street." I glanced at my watch. "We really shouldn't keep him much longer, if we can. You'll forgive us, then, for rushing away?"

Mycroft, for a moment, looked almost as unhappy as his brother, but he nodded, smiled, and waved me towards the door, drawing Miss Fairchild to his side with his other arm.

My friend nodded curtly at his brother, and then strode from the room. I knew that he expected me to follow immediately, so, with one final encouraging smile at Miss Fairchild, I went after Holmes into the deepening afternoon.

"Well," he said, with a little rueful laugh as I joined him on the front steps, "I suppose you will be forced to admit that I was right again, Watson. I have derived no enjoyment from the affair."

For myself, I really had nothing to say of the matter, so offended was I by the attitude that Holmes had taken with his brother and Miss Fairchild. I could not decide whether or not I was more disgusted with the way he had treated the lady, or more sympathetic for my friend, who I could now see was dejected at having lost his formerly insistently analytical brother taken away from him by this controlling woman.

It was perhaps a lucky accident, then, that at that very moment, a blood-curdling scream went up from the rooms just adjacent to Mycroft's own.

"Fire! Fire!" came the cry. Holmes raised an eyebrow, and gave me the most disturbingly elated glance, before rushing off in the direction of the cry.

"Come along, Watson," he called behind him as he went. "There's something dangerous afoot here after all! Perhaps, upon reflection, we shall discover that both of us were in the right."


	3. Chapter Three: A Cry of Fire

**Author's Note: **A thousand thank yous to those who reviewed, and especially to those who alerted me to any typos in a very kind and polite way. Massive, massive props to you. And now,

**Chapter Three: A Cry of "Fire"**

I caught up to Holmes just as he was rushing up the steps of the building adjacent to Mycroft's own, the cry of "fire" still echoing from within, in a woman's voice.

My companion did not wait for anyone to come to the door. After one peremptory ring of the bell, he threw open the door in front of him, and strode inside.

There were indeed flames rising up in a fury, both from a large wooden circular table in the center of the room, and from a chair that sat next to a large bookshelf. The flames barred the way of a young man, stricken white-faced with fear, and of the small boy whom he carried in his arms. An older woman, grey-haired and ashen as her housemate was standing just a short ways away from the two, separated from them by the burning table.

Without a word, Holmes surveyed the room, and then turned to me with a brisk and urgent manner. "Go to the bathroom, Watson, in Mycroft's," he ordered, "and fill us a bucket of water, quickly."

"But," I muttered, wringing my hands, "where am I to get the bucket ?"

"There should be one in the bathroom cupboard, used for scrubbing the floor." He did not wait for my response, but turned back to the whimpering woman. As I ran for the door, I saw him bend to murmur something close to the distraught woman's ear.

I tore across to Mycroft's rooms, where to the startled faces of Mycroft Holmes and Miss Anne Fairchild, I curtly recounted the situation. I inquired after the bucket, and, exactly as Holmes dictated, there was one to be found beneath the bathroom cabinet. Snatching it up, I filled it to the brim with water, and then hurried back to Holmes' aid, trying desperately not to upset the bucket in my haste.

When I reached my friend's side once more, I found that the old woman was now in possession of the child, which she clutched to her breast as frantically as any fearful parent, although she looked, at a glimpse, far too old to be the boy's own mother.

"Excellent, Watson," cried Holmes at my entrance, and, relieving me of the bucket, he thoroughly doused the flames, and then stamped out the remaining flickers which licked the edges and legs of the table with the bottom of his boot.

All was quiet for a moment after the smoke cleared, with every member of the household breathing heavily and attempting to regain their bearings. In the interim, I demanded of Holmes what he had done to rescue the child in my absence.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled, wiping a bead of sweat from his otherwise immaculate brow. "Elementary," he said, with a shrug. "You'll notice, if you would be so kind as to look at the ceiling above your head, that there is a loose board, a board which, upon climbing up into the bedroom, can be found in the upstairs floorboards." He paused for a moment. "Or at least," he tried again, "you would have observed it if I had not torn it out in my hurry just a few moments previously."

Indeed, in the direction in which he pointed, there was a great gap in the ceiling, where Holmes must have pulled out his board.

"And so," I attempted, "you pulled the child up from the lower room through the hole in the ceiling, then."

Holmes smiled. "Exactly," he agreed, with approbation. "We're lucky," he added after a moment, with a rueful tinge to his voice, "that our friend here has such obligingly long arms." He gestured at the young man, who was too glad to be alive to be occupied with much else.

I looked over at Holmes' own not slight height, and thought to myself that this house had indeed met a provident turn today. Silently, I thanked my own lucky stars that we had happened to be so nearby, and wondered if Holmes would still consider our visit so very fruitless.

My friend had by now drifted to the side of the old woman, who was blubbering tearily at him in senseless gratitude. Upon noticing me, she turned some of her incoherent attentions in my direction.

"It was our pleasure, madam," I insisted, making a short bow. "We are only glad we could have been of such service."

"Indeed," echoed Holmes. "Quite so. You know, madam, you really ought to be slightly more careful around the house. It was an accident, I presume, that started the fire?"

"Not at all," the woman spoke up, more understandable now in her apparent outrage. "No, no accident at all, but a deliberate arson! I saw it with my own two eyes, sir, I saw it, I tell you, and I'd swear to it whenever you chose!"

Holmes turned his eager, brightly intrigued eyes on me for a moment before responding. "Surely," he said, "you cannot be aware of any actions that might have caused this little incident, actions that may have been for any malicious purpose?"

"Oh yes, yes, I can," the woman insisted. "I appreciate your opportune aid, but please, do not try to placate me, sir. I know what it was I saw."

"And what," asked Holmes, "did you see, then?" At the woman's hesitation, Holmes held up a hand, and then beckoned me forward. "I'm terribly sorry," he stated in his pacifying, charismatic fashion. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and this," he continued, drawing me over with one arm, "is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. If I am to understand that there has been some sort of foul play in the matter, then we would be delighted to put ourselves at your disposal."

The woman looked surprised, and then quite impressed with my friend's introduction. "Well," she replied, "that is very kind of you, sir. I am Mrs. Simone Allastair, and this is my son Alec, and my nephew, Gregory."

"An out of town visit, I presume," remarked Holmes, gesturing in the direction of the younger man,. The aforementioned Mr. Alec Allastair nodded. "I see," Holmes continued, "that you are at present your nephew's legal caretaker, Mrs. Allastair."

Holmes' sudden statements of the kind had long since ceased to so terribly shock me, but I saw Mrs. Allastair's eyes raise up to her hairline. "I am," she agreed with a nod. "My baby sister passed away of illness only two years ago, and I have had the care of her young son ever since."

"Very good," said Holmes, leaning his long frame up against the undamaged wall behind him, the only wall in the room that did not bear the signs of soot and smoke. "And now, madam, you say that you have reason to believe that someone has attempted to set fire to your home intentionally?"

"It was this morning," said Mrs. Allastair, flopping down into the armchair farthest from the table. "There was a ring of the bell, around, I believe, eight o'clock. I thought it was rather early for a call, and when I answered the door, I found that no one was there. In fact, there was no one lurking anywhere around the front of the house." Mrs. Allastair paused, and Holmes nodded encouragingly for her to continue.

"Well," she continued, after spending a moment to catch her breath, "I walked around to the corner of the street, to see if my caller had drifted far enough away from the house that I might not catch him on his way. just to apologize, you see, for being so very slow in answering the door. I didn't mean anything by my attempt to catch him. But when I got there, to the corner of the street, all that awaited me was a tiny slip of a woman, with a great deal of dark hair, a dark colored dress, and an unlit candle in one hand."

I saw my friend tense against the wall, muscles quivering, even as he spoke his next few carefree words. "Surely," he said, "that is nothing but a simple coincidence."

Mrs. Allastair flared at him, planting her hands on her hips and looking to her son for support. "Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes? Then perhaps you'd care to explain to me why I saw, only ten minutes before you arrived, that the same young woman was walking away from that same street corner, without her candle in her hand!"

My companion's face clouded slightly, and a felt a slight involuntary twinge of satisfaction, knowing that Holmes' obvious suspicions about Miss Fairchild were so unfounded. "Ten minutes before, you say," Holmes confirmed, and Mrs. Allastair nodded.

I watched my companion's eyes for a moment, and I could almost follow the thoughts as they passed through his phenomenally analytical mind. It was impossible to reconcile Miss Fairchild's resemblance to Mrs. Allastair's description of her visitor with Miss Fairchild's clearly observed presence in the residence of Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

"Well," said Holmes finally, apparently somewhat dissatisfied, "I should suggest then that you look for any wax remains that may signify the presence of this woman's candle about your house."

He nodded politely, and was just turning to go, when the front door burst open, and we turned around to find to our surprise that Mycroft Holmes was standing in the doorway, accompanied by Miss Fairchild.

"We were worried," Miss Fairchild began, by way of explanation. "When Doctor Watson did not come back. I was sure that something unfortunate had befallen the doctor and yourself, but now I see that everything is as it should be."

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could do so, Mrs. Allastair let out a shrieking cry, and leveled one finger at Miss Fairchild, her eyes wide with horror and accusation.

"That," she exploded, "is her! That is the very woman with the candle, whom I saw just now by the house!"

Miss Fairchild blinked at our new acquaintance, and looked inquiringly at myself. "What on earth," she started to ask, "is this all about?"

I looked at Holmes, who, with his contemplative stare fixed on the opposite wall, said nothing.


	4. Chapter Four: A Confict of Interest

**Author's Note: **Wow, what a lousy day. My computer broke down entirely and I had to steal one from my friend. It doesn't have Microsoft Word on it, so I tried to spellcheck this by hand as carefully as I could. Bear with any trouble, I wrote it in WordPad. And without further excuses,

**Chapter Four: A Conflict of Interest**

Deaf to both Mrs. Allastair's cries, and and to Miss Fairchild's pleas for explanation, Mr. Mycroft Holmes and myself both turned our attenteions to my illustrious companion.

Holmes had one lip slightly chewed under in an expression of intense concentration. Stepping forward, he addressed Miss Fairchild with the most interest that he had yet shown towards her.

"Miss Fairchild," he started, "you do not, perhaps, have a sister, I suppose?"

Looking to Mycroft in surprise, Miss Fairchild shook her head. "No," she replied, "I have only the one brother, and he is much older than myself, but no, I have no sisters at all."

"Female cousins, then," pressed Holmes, "do you have any women cousins closer to your own age?" Miss Fairchild answered with a little shake of her head.

"I see," said Holmes, returning to his thoughtful, introspective state, until I was hardly sure if he hadn't forgotten everyone else in the room entirely. After a few silent moments, he turned, and gestured to myself with one finger.

"I shoudl ike to have a quiet word with you, Watson," he said. "Mycroft, if you would be so good as to join us as well, I would be very much obliged." With that, he started outside, resisting Miss Fairchild's clutch at his arm as he went. Mycroft HOlmes and myself hurried out on to the steps to join him.

Holmes retained the cigar that Mycroft had given him back in Mycroft's own roomss, and he smoked it absently, seating himself on the first step, his back to us as he spoke.

"THis woman," he said quietly, "Mrs. Allastair, she makes a claim against your young lady, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "Yes," he agreed, "I did hear that when we came in.Perhaps you would care to explain what that was all about, then?"

Evidently, Sherlock Holmes did not care to explain, and so, as he smoked in silence without meeting his brother's gaze, I took up the task of informing Mycroft of what was amiss. "Apparently," I stated as helpfully as I could, "she has mistaken Miss Fairchild for the woman whom she believes is responsible for starting the fire in her home just now, a woman whom she saw only several moments before her cry, with a great resemblance to our friend."

Mycroft did not look surprised, although a deep frown creased his face as he listened.  
Holmes raised a questioning eyebrow in my direction. "Mistaken, you say?" He asked simply.

Mycroft started up, with an unhappy grimace at the obvious doubt in my friend's voice. "Now," he said, "wait just one moment. You stood talking with the doctor, Miss Fairchild, and myself only moments before you answered the cry of "fire" in the first place. I do not, I confess, see how she could possibly have orchestrated anything of the sort."

"No," agreed Holmes, "no, neither do I. But, simply because we do not at present see it does not mean that it could not possibly have occured."

Now he turned his searching expression on me. "What do you think, Doctor? I value your input, as Mycroft and I are clearly at a difference of opinion."

I shrugged helplessly. "For myself," I said, "I can make nothing of it. Though I saw Mrs. Allastair identify Miss Fairchild with her own eyes, with not a shadow of a doubt, and yet I cannot deny the presence of the same in Mycroft's rooms. I don't quite know what to say."

"It is a very peculiar situation," Holmes agreed, and then that was all, it seemed that he had to say on the subject.

As the three of us returend into the house, Holmes did stop once, just inside the doorway, and leaned over to share a final, private word with Mycroft. I just barefly overheard the comment as I rushed forward to reassure and to seperate both Mrs. Allastair, and the now cowering Miss Fairchild.

"If I were you," Holmes was murmuring to Mycroft in a confidential, almost gently hissing tone, "If I were you, my good Mycroft, I should keep that woman in as close and careefula watch as I could, over the next few days. Mark my words, you would be a wiser man to do it." With that, he took two long strides, and joined me Mrs. Allastair's side.

"I would again press my recommendations," he said to her, "that if you determine any further details of the case, you should call on Doctor Watson and myself in our rooms on Baker Street."

Holmes gave Alec Allastair one final, cautionary glance, and then with a quiet "Good morning," he turned on his heel, and strode from the room.

"I was mistaken," chatted my friend, upon our return to Baker Street. "Even the most odious of social engagements provides us with a bit of a conundrum which is most to my liking. Long ago, I should have learned to take your advice to heart with more faith and enthusiasm."

"And so you elieve Mrs. Allastai'rs accusations?" I asked, "despite the evidence of your own eyes?"

"What I saw, Watson, as I"ve said before, and what I can conjecture or deduce are too entirely different things," Holmes admonished me. "That is, in fact, the one factor which holds you, yourself back from greatness. That," he said, "and a generous and benevolent quality towards mankind which I would not give up in you for all the analytical prowess in the world."

I had no time to be flattered by his comment. Holmes had started up on an energetic tirade against his brother Mycroft, whom it seemed had fallen into some considerable disfavor in the eyes of my companion. I had only just started to convince him against contuing his diatribe, when the bell rang, and Holmes, who had until this moment been sedentary, sprang to his feet. Crossing to the door, he admitted the very man about whom we had only just now been speaking.

"Sherlock," breathed Mycroft Holmes, reaching out and clasping my friend's forearm in his agitation, "Please, if ever you have wished to return a favor to me of any kind, now would be the right time for it."

"I thought," said Holmes, "that I had done such a thing this morning." His manner softened, however, in the face of his brother's obvoius distress. "I take it from the haste that you have exhibited in coming to find us so soon after our departure, that Miss Fairchild has been taken in by the official police on Mrs. Allastair's accusations, then."

Mycroft's grave concern spoke for itself. "You know perfectly well," he began, for what must have been the third time that very day, "how unlikely it is that Anne had anything to do with it."

"Unlikely it is," returned Sherlock Holmes, "but hardly impossible. For that, I assure you, you have my sympathies."

Mycroft slid into a chair by the fire with a mournful groan, and my friend glanced up with an inquisitive expression. At this moment , I felt it necessary to leave the two brothers to their private exchange. Yet, even as I left, they sat in silence, apparently exectuing an intellectual tete-a-tete in nothing but glances at significant murmurings.

I spent the greater part of an hour, therefore, enrossed in a novel, which I could not help finding significantly less interesting than the problem of Miss Fairchild and the Allastair fire. This lack of interest in other distractions was not uncommon, and after a while I found my way downstairs again, treading softly so as not to disturb any heated conversation which I anticipated might have been taking place below.

When I reached the bottom, I found Sherlock Holmes sitting alone in his armchair, long legs curled up to his chest, smoking his pipe with perfect indifference. He was holding a photograph before his eyes with one hand, languildy, as if it was a fish. I could not see the picture itself, as it was obscured from my view by Holmes' angle in the chair, but as I crossed towards him, Holmes put the photograph down upon the table, and looked up at me.

"As you see, Watson," he said, gesturing at Mycroft's vacant chair, "it is quite quiet now, and it did not come to blows as you no doubt expected, and so vacated the room as hastily as you could. But it's quite safe now. You should know me better than to assume I would lower myself to any sort of physical quarrel or shouting match with Mycroft. Holmes sighed. "He's a good sort, incredibly bright, and yet blinded in the way that men often are by the eyelashes of a woman, which he believes, no doubt, to be the only eyelashes of their kind in all the world. And yet, if he were to look around him with unclouded vision, he would see that in fact every young lady that walks down the street has a similar pair of eyes. The only difference, perhaps, is that many of them might not have the misfortune of having such a singular tongue as I believe Miss Fairchild does."

Holding up the photograph, he showed me a picture that he had no doubt been given by Mycroft, of Miss Anne Fairchild, smiling daintily, dressed in that same hat which she had refused to put on when we had last seen her. "He thinks that I can save his darling from the charges," he speculated. "And I suppose I can. If, as I"ve said, there are so very many women who look just like Miss Fairchild, how hard could it be to find one that could have just as easily committed the crime?"


	5. Chapter Five: A Careful Examination

**Chapter Five: A Careful Examination**

Sherlock Holmes spent several hours, either folded into the chair before the fire, or pacing back and forth before that very chair, smoke coming up in great puffs from his pipe, a gentle haze could be seen coating the room.

He did nto speak for a long time, and I was well aware that when my friend drifted into these states, any interruption into his thoughts that I might make was unwelcome. When Holmes stepped outside for a while, presumably to get himself some air, I settled myself into his armchair, and soon found myself drifting off to sleep, despite my best desires to stay awake until Holmes had decided to share his speculations with me.

The next morning, I was still in the armchair, somewhat tousled, with the blankets from Holmes' upstairs bed tossed over me, trailing off of the chair on to the floor. Breakfast had apparently been laid out for some minutes, because Holmes was sitting at the table, fingers folded together, watching me keenly over his eggs. Upon seeing that I was in fact awake, he smiled. "I am sorry to have taxed you last night," he said, with a rueful smile. "I often forget that despite all, you try so hard to keep up with my musings, and I did not consider that you would attempt to wait up for me until I'd returned."

"It is not unusual," I said, blinking blearily at him through the still lingering residue of his smoking fit the night before, "for me to wait."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "And with that in mind, I have in turn waited for you to begin breakfast."

I drew up a chair at the table, and tucked in to my own meal with some vigor. In the events of the day before, it seemed that both of us had quite forgotten to eat supper, although Holmes, with his rugged ability to go for days, fueled only on his own thoughts, did not seem to show any signs of particular hunger.

"I promised," he said, "that I would this morning receive Miss Fairchild here, so as to hear her side of Mrs. Allastair's story. It is very likely that she will be accompanied by Lestrade, since it is by his permission that I have the ability to entertain her here at all."

"A favor to you for all the work you've done for the force," I suggested.

Holmes shook his head. "A favor to me," he said, "would be refusal."

I had understood thus far why it was that Holmes was so averse to Mycroft's infatuation with this woman. Holmes had, apparently, from the way he'd always spoken of his brother, been quite impressed with Mycroft's analytical prowess, and his "superior" abilities, and so I presume that he had seen himself and Mycroft as two of a kind, perhaps the only two of his kind that there ever were. Of course it would therefore be a blow for him to discover that Mycroft had taken up with a woman, abandoning my friend to his solitary genius.

I mentioned this to Holmes in a way that I thought was subtle and sensitive, but he in turn just laughed, not maliciously, but not with any kindness either.

"You are forever seeing the good and the human in people, Watson," he said, with a smile. "Yes, I do perceive that after this attatchment, it is very unlikely that Mycroft will ever be that same mechanical mind that he has been, but it is not for myself that I am sorry. It is for Mycroft."

"How is that not better than what I had assumed?" I asked. "You seem to have concern only for him and not for yourself, I do not see how that shows badly upon you."

"It is because," my friend answered, "I am ashamed of my brother. No, it is that I am worried about him, but instead that I realize that he has sunk low enough to be ensnared by a woman's wiles, and so I am embarrassed. We have discussed before how the softer, cloying emotions such as love create only a source of weakness in a mind such as Mycroft's, and I feel that he has wasted his own mind by allowing it to become entangled with such sentiments."

It was not at all unlike the speech that he'd given me upon the nature of happiness, and I was just beginning to get a bit fed up with my friend's superior philosophies, when there was a ring at the bell.

"Ah, and that will be our Miss Fairchild now," said Holmes, and, standing from the table, he went to the door.

It was indeed as he had predicted. Inspector Lestrade, looking rueful and uncertain, was standing behind the tiny Miss Fairchild, who rushed into the room with a cry that indicated how glad she was to be free of her detainment long enough, in the presence of a familiar face.

"There's been a terrible mistake," she said, without any sort of formalities. "Mr. Holmes, if you ever loved your brother, you will understand that there has been a terrible mistake."

"Please have a seat, Miss Fairchild," said Holmes, unperturbed. "Lestrade, you're welcome to a chair as well. Thank you for taking the time to bring Miss Fairchild by this morning."

"Of course," the official replied, sounding hardly genuine. "Anything for our Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of course. I am given to understand," he continued, a bit warily, "that this situation is somewhat personal to you, then?"  
Holmes shook his head airily. "Hardly," he replied. "I am simply searching for the truth in the name of justice, as you would only expect." And then, with a sigh, "and doing a favor for my brother, of which you're quite aware. As to the matter being personal, however, it is far more personal to him than to me, and you needn't worry about any bias on my part."

"Very good, then," said the unconvinced Lestrade. He took a chair quite close to Miss Fairchild's, and she launched into her narrative without any further prompting.

"You're going to ask me about yesterday, of course," she said. "And I've really got nothing to say about it, except that I was, from very early in the morning, in the company of your brother, and so could not possibly have been anywhere else."

"Please, from the very beginning," drawled my companion, lids half-open in that lazy, listening style that overtook him when he was in thought. "Yesterday morning, you were at Mycroft's home?"

Miss Fairchild shook her head. "No," she said, "He was in fact at mine, having breakfast with myself and my mother."

"And where do you live?" asked Holmes.

"Only a few houses down, I'm afraid, from Mrs. Allastair's," Miss Fairchild replied with a sigh. "I know exactly what that looks like, but the facts are the best, aren't they?"

"Yes," agreed Holmes somberly. "The truth is your best opportunity." Pausing, he made a little note, and then turned to see if I was listening, before continuing his interrogation. "And so you live with your mother, do you? And does your brother live with you?"

"No, my brother is studying medicine in America," she said. "He's just returned recently on a visit."

"I thought," insisted Holmes, "that you said your brother was much your elder."

"He is," nodded the woman. "He's only just returned to school to learn a second trade, so as to help out my mother. We're alone, you see, as my father walked out some years ago, and we haven't heard from him since. Daniel, that is, my brother, actually thought to find him in America, but having nothing but a photograph to go on, since he may very well have changed his name, he has had no luck in the matter. And before you ask, no, I do not believe that anything tragic has befallen my father, or at least, nothing that he did not quite deserve." Her eyes hardened slightly. "He knew what he was doing when he left us."

Holmes frowned and raised his eyes to meet hers at this sudden show of malice on her part. Miss Fairchild did not attempt to correct her actions, but dropped her hands demurely into her lap and looked away from him.

"And after breakfast," Holmes pressed, "What did you do with yourselves?"

"Well," continued Miss Fairchild, "we did nothing. That is, to say, nothing of note. Mycroft had yet to meet my brother, and we spent some time in conversation with him and my mother, so that it was quite afternoon already when we left. Then, together, Mycroft and I went for a leisurely walk around the house and down the streets, just talking."

This was the first element of the story that seemed to genuinely interest my companion, who sat forward in his seat, and fixed his gaze on Miss Fairchild for a hard moment.

"And you say that it was afternoon by the time you were taking this walk?" Miss Fairchild nodded in assent. "Can you tell me exactly what o'clock it was, after you left your mother's home?"

She seemed to ponder for a moment, and then shook her head unhappily. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I really couldn't say."

Holmes reached over, and dragged the photograph from where he had left it on the table, holding it out to Miss Fairchild. She took it hesitantly, and looked down at it, apparently not surprised to see that it was her own.

"This is Mycroft's," she said. "I had it taken for him only a week ago."

"It is indeed," Holmes agreed. "And you'll agree, then, that it is, without any doubt, your photograph, and that this is yourself depicted in it?"

Miss Fairchild looked surprised. "Why, yes," she said. "It's a picture of me. I don't see how it could be anyone else, the resemblance is not in question."

"Not at all," Holmes replied. "I ask, only because when I showed this same photograph to Mrs. Allastair, yesterday, evening, she was convinced that not only was it the same woman, but that the woman who made the attempt on her family's life was wearing the same dress."

It was apparent that the now whit-faced Miss Fairchild had nothing to say to that last remark, but could only shake her head back and forth in a silent denial of everything that Holmes seemed to stack against her. He tucked the photo away into his jacket, and nodded at Lestrade, standing in one fluid motion.

"Thank you," he said, "That is all I have for you at present. You are free to go, although I think that I might like to speak to Miss Fairchild again sometime in the very near future concerning this matter.

Miss Fairchild went quietly enough, looking back at me once over her shoulder as Lestrade hurried her out of the room. I watched her as she went down the street, her head bowed in frustration, until the two of them had left our line of sight.

"Mycroft is in luck," murmured Holmes, fingering the photograph. "I don't believe that Miss Fairchild is our arsonist after all."

"Well, then, who is it?" I asked eagerly, stepping forward. Holmes shook his head.

"That, I can't tell you until I've made some more inquiries of my own," he insisted. "I shall have to go out for a while. Hopefully I shall not be back quite so late as to keep you up all night. "

"Might I not come with you?" I asked, reaching for my jacket, and trying to smooth down my sleep-mussed hair as I started for the door.

Holmes, however, held out one hand, and shook his head at my attempts.

"No, doctor," he smiled, "I think that I should like you to remain here in my absence, I'm afraid that your more gentle sentiments might interfere in what you know to be a case that so rattles my brother's heart."

I was left standing in the doorway as he walked away, feeling rather taken aback by Holmes denial of my request to go. It was not the kind of thing that he was often prone to do, and I wondered to my chagrin if my numerous attempts to talk him out of his dislike for his brother's young lady had caused me to fall into that same realm of disfavor.


	6. Chapter Six: A Candle in the Night

Chapter Six: A Candle in the Night 

The next series of events, I must confess, is very difficult for me to describe. It all happened very quickly, and so preoccupied was I with what was happening around me that there will very likely be large gaps in this narrative where I have forgotten what took place altogether. I am sure you will forgive me when I say that it was all very taxing to my nerves, and that you will agree that I am justified in missing certain details.

Sherlock Holmes did not return from his outing for a very long time, until it was evening when I finally decided that perhaps it would be a good hour for me to turn in. Somewhat exhausted from the night before, and still fruitless, without any knowledge of what Holmes was up to, I was too weary and put off to wait up for him as I usually did.

Just as I was climbing the steps to my bedroom, however, there was a ring of the bell. I stopped for a moment on the stairs, convinced that it must be some sort of accident or trick of the wind, since it was very unlikely for anyone to call this late at night. On second thought, however, I remembered that people, though unlikely to call on me now that I had sold my practice, were very keen to receive advice from my friend in all hours of the evening. Rushing back down to the door, I opened it, to discover that my visitor seemed to have given up, and to have hurried off to some other place of refuge.

A bit concerned, I gazed out the window for a moment, trying to catch a glimpse of anyone who might be lurking outside hoping to be admitted. No one was there. All I could see, in fact, was the light of a candle drifting in from what I thought was the window of the building next door.

I gave up, and finally did go upstairs, settling down for the night, and undressing in my own room, deciding that no doubt, when my friend returned home, I would hear him open the door, and be rested enough to go downstairs and meet him. With that assurance in my head, I turned in for the night.

It must have been two or so hours later that I heard a crash downstairs, and roused myself groggily, to see a pair of bare feet disappearing around the corner, through my cracked window. To my alarm, I could hear crackling and splitting sounds in the downstairs room, and a buzzing roar that could only be recognized as the sound that a fire makes as it gathers momentum.

Out of my common sense with fear, I ran down the stairs and saw, exactly as I had predicted, a blazing fire rampaging through the sitting room, engulfing Holmes' precious armchair in a crazed ball of smoke and flame. Looking to the window, I saw that I had left it open, and my stomach sank as I recognized that it must have been through that window that the perpetrator had lit the fire.

In the middle of the floor, just next to the smoking chair was a candle, burning its way through the carpet. I beat at it with the blanket that lay, miraculously still in one piece, on the ground next to it, and succeeded to put out the candle itself. The fire, however, still burned away, and I found myself backed into the corner. I knew that my only recourse was to abandon my rooms, and make for the door, in hopes of escaping out into the street.

Without a further thought, I threw myself at the doorway, skirting the edge of the armchair, and avoiding the table that had just itself caught flame. It was at that moment, however, that the bookshelf teetered, eaten away at the bottom by the flames, and a large, heavy volume, which I later learned to have been the Encyclopedia Britannica, came crashing down, and struck me in the back of the head.

I am told that even as the door creaked open in front of me, I fell, stunned, to the floor, bleeding all over the pages of the encyclopedia, which soon itself caught flame and burned to ashes beside me.

When I came to, the room was dark. It was obviously not my own, as I could tell immediately from the fact that I was lying in an armchair, and it could not be the same armchair that I had seen burn to ashes only some time before.

I thought it had been only some time, but when I turned my head slightly to look out the window, I saw that it was neither evening, nor morning, but the middle of the afternoon, and that the sky had deeply clouded over, quite a change from the sunny atmosphere of the day before.

I attempted to turn over on my side, but my head began to ache horribly, and I became aware of a burning on my face that I could almost not bear. I felt that I was going to swoon and pass out, and so, with a considerable effort, I regained myself, and lay as still as I could in the chair, taking in long, calculated breaths of the air, which to my now well-trained eye, was no longer filled with smoke.

It was then that I heard a little cough from behind me, and I again tried, very slowly and carefully, to overturn myself so as to identify the source of the noise. It took me several minutes to do, but as I was gentle and made only soft and careful movements, I eventually found myself facing in the other direction without having unduly knocked myself out.

Now, I could see that the room I was in was a very familiar one. I was stretched out not, as I had previously thought, in the armchair, but across a small sofa, with my head facing towards the door. The room I was in was more luxuriantly furnished than my own, but showing that similar and familiar taste which I recognized as that of the Holmes family. It was, without a doubt, Mycroft Holmes' sitting room.

Another cough drew my attention, and I raised my head to see Sherlock Holmes, sitting in a chair very near to my little sofa, his head bare and bowed, his hands clasped in front of his face, so that it was obscured from me. It appeared, in fact, that he was lost in prayer, something that I had never before witnessed in him. The posture, however, and the way that he held his torso, with long legs crossed beneath him, identified it without a doubt as my friend, although his shoulders were drooped in apparent fatigue. I attempted to reach out with one hand, but upon drawing it out of where I had been lying on it, I saw that my wrist and fingers were covered over with large, red welts, and a network of scarring and blackened bruises. Tucking it again beneath me, I called out to Holmes, and I heard my voice distinctly crack, though I tried very hard to keep it steady.

"Are you praying for my soul," I asked, trying to make the smile in my voice evident, even in my apparently extremely unfortunate state, "or your own, then?"

My companion's head snapped up in an instant, and he straightened himself out, holding himself erect at the sight of my open eyes. I saw, to my horror that he had not in fact been praying at all, but that his eyes were bloodshot and strained, with large bags beneath them, and the faintest traces of streaks around the cheekbones. "My dear Holmes," I said, trying despite my injuries to start towards him, "you've been-!"

My friend held a finger to his lips, and shook his head quickly at me, stopping my words before they left my lips. "Please, doctor," he insisted, with a broken urgency in his usually calm voice, "it is very important that you lie still and quiet for the moment. You have been through quite the ordeal."

I did so, if only to prevent him from rousing his concern further, and wondered, even as I felt myself sliding back into sleep again, which of us it was that had been through the ordeal.

When I awoke for the second time, my situation had not changed, except that Holmes had slunk farther down in his chair, and appeared to have drifted to sleep despite himself, head lolling across his arm, which he'd thrown out against the nearby table.

From behind me, I could hear footsteps, and I craned my neck around to see, to my surprise and consternation, Miss Fairchild walking in from somewhere beyond where the breakfast table lay.

Upon seeing my face, she stopped, and held out her hands to me as if both in protest and in plea. "Please, Doctor Watson," she insisted, "You know now better than anyone that it could not have been I who did this thing. I was in custody at the time, and I have only been released this morning when it was discovered that another fire had been started while I was unable to do anything. Please, doctor, it wasn't I who did this to you."

"I know," I murmured. "I have enough faith in Sherlock Holmes' judgment that if he says he does not believe you the culprit, then I know that you are not." I leaned back against the sofa to show that my guard was down, and the lady relaxed. She placed the tray that she was holding, with several cups of tea and a loaf of bread, on the table beside Holmes, and glanced at him with a half-smile in her eyes.

"He has been there since last night," I said, gesturing at my friend. "I worry that this is the first time he has slept in so many hours."

Miss Fairchild chuckled darkly. "It has been more than that, you know." She leaned down to look into his closed and quiet face, haggard and yet peaceful in the few moments of sleep that he had secured. "I do not believe that until this time, Mr. Sherlock Holmes has allowed his vigil to lapse. He may sleep for quite some time, now, and I should not disturb him."

Something in her voice alarmed me. "I have been here for quite a time, then," I said, and Miss Fairchild nodded. "I'm sorry to be taking up what I presume to be Mr. Mycroft Holmes' couch for so long."

The woman's expression told me without requiring any explanation on her part, that I was most welcome, and should not consider myself as taking up any space that I was not given free of any trial or trouble on her part, or on Mycroft Holmes'.

"Perhaps, then," I said, entreatingly, "You would be so good as to escort my friend back to Baker Street. He is needed there I'm sure, unless you have already solved the mystery of the Allastair fire. He can do much more good there, where he can be called upon by the authorities for his assistance, rather than languishing here, kind as you have been."

To my surprise, Miss Fairchild laughed outright. "No, no," she insisted, "No, I will not try to move him again. I have asked him before, and Mycroft has begged him, but he will not take up the case again. He will not leave your bedside, I think, until you leave it yourself, and so the police force is quite on its own."

With that, she left the room, leaving the tray awaiting my friend's convenience. I watched him with some unwarranted pleasure, knowing that he would perhaps never discuss again this vigil that he kept for my sake, and that I would have to therefore satisfy myself with my own knowledge of the matter.


	7. Chapter Seven: A Renewed Vigor

**Author's Note: **Particular thanks to **Janey Aurora**, who has just been the most delightfully eager reviewer. 

**Chapter Seven: A Renewed Vigor**

It was only a few days later that I was informed of exactly how badly off I had been, and what had so keenly roused my friend's concerns. When I had fallen, as I had by now recognized, I had hit my head, and passed out face down on the floor. The flames had begun to lick at my person even as Holmes returned from his journey to Mycroft's, and I had been very badly burned around the hands and face. The injuries and the loss of blood had weakened and sickened me, so that I had been in very bad shape for several days, even a week.

The events were described to me as follows; when Sherlock Holmes arrived on the scene, he was just in time to see my fall, and to rush towards me through the debris. Barely managing to do it unscathed, he did not reach me in time to prevent the very bad burns, which I received on my face and hands. He did, however, after only a few minutes, shield me from the fire long enough to put it off. He then called a cab, and dashed me frantically over to his brother's, where I had lain for almost a week before I awoke.

Only two or three days after I regained consciousness, I found myself feeling well enough to rise, to sit up straight, and to eat a bit of solid foods. The loss of blood had made me weak and sick, and the hit on the head had rattled me a great deal, leaving me faint and useless for a good while. There had been some worry, at the beginning, that I might never wake up, and that was what had so blanched my companion's face, so that he looked no better than myself by the end of it.

As Miss Fairchild had predicted, Sherlock Holmes did not rise from his seat until I could get around and walk on my own. He showed a particular polite deference to the lady from then on, almost as if in recompense for the lack of cordiality he had shown at the beginning. Mycroft, quietly pleased to see that both his brother and myself were well on our way to being healed of the effects of the accident, once again begged Holmes to take up the case of the Allastair fire.

There was a vigor and an eager fire of it's own in Holmes eyes after that, and I found him more convinced than ever that he would be the man to solve the case of the mysterious arsonist. He listened to me as I described, in every particular, the event, which had preceded my injuries, and we both noted with some excitement how parallel it had been to the occurrence of which Mrs. Allastair had spoken.

And yet, the puzzle still remained of how to completely clear Miss Fairchild's name. Although it was absolutely impossible that she could have had anything to do with it, her face still remained stamped on the public opinion of the case, and Mrs. Allastair still positively identified her photograph. In fact, it was rumored that around the time that I had received the candle through my window, a woman of Miss Fairchild's description had been lurking around in the area, and I could make neither heads or tails of any of it.

One morning, while we were still staying at Mycroft's residence, Holmes and I went for a relaxing walk around the house, which I believed would help me get my bearings back after my head injury. I chanced, at the time, to ask him what it was that he had learned on his evening visit to Mrs. Allastair's on the night of my accident.

"You are right, Watson," he said, looking at me with a start. "I had completely lost track of telling you any of it in the hubbub that followed." He pondered for a moment, and then turned to me with the pleased expression of a man who had been asked to describe his latest masterpiece.

"I believe," he said, "that I have uncovered many of the missing pieces of our puzzle. If only," he added, with a darkened countenance, "I had been a little quicker in doing, you would have been spared that unfortunate run-in with my bookshelf."

"That," I insisted, "is a useless thought, and neither of us are the worse for wear long-term. What have you learned?"

Holmes stopped, and turned to face me, so that I had to bring myself to an abrupt halt to stop myself from running directly into him. "Do you remember," he asked, "how Miss Fairchild told us that she has a brother who had been living in America?"

"I do," I said. "Her senior, now in town to visit with her and her mother."

"Capital, Watson," beamed Holmes. "You have a knack for detail, even if you can only retain without stringing together the facts." He paced as we talked. "Well, upon beginning my inquiries, I discovered that the young man staying with Mrs. Allastair, her son, apparently, also hails from America, where he has, although I'm sure you've deduced this by now, been studying medicine at the same university."

I was taken aback. "And so, they know each other "

Holmes shrugged. "Alec Allastair denies the acquaintance," he said, "but I would not be surprised if that very acquaintance was the key to our little mystery, and I hope to determine exactly how far that mystery goes, today. It is to that end that I would ask you to accompany me over to the Allastair's residence this morning, if you're feeling up to it. Otherwise, I believe we can certainly wait until tomorrow."

"Of course I'm feeling up to it," I said quickly. "I'm feeling quite well, actually, considering the circumstances. All thanks to you and Mycroft and your swift action on my behalf."

Holmes did not say anything, but he looked quietly pleased at my recognition.

"Besides," I said, "I would much rather have this case solved, and prevent anyone else from losing their precious armchairs."

Together, we walked at a leisurely pace across to the Allastair residence. I was recounting a delirious dream that I had while I was wafting in and out of my temporary unconsciousness, when Holmes stopped hard in his tracks, with a surprised expression on his face. I stopped as well, and peered around him to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that had so arrested him.

In the road before us stood a young couple, a tall man, and a remarkably dainty young woman. As they drew closer to us, I noticed that the man was Mr. Alec Allastair. The woman with him was a small blond girl, very slight of stature, with her hair pinned back tightly against her head. I heard Holmes let out a grand sigh of contentment, and then he turned away from the street, and entered the house of Mrs. Allastair, without another glance at the pair.

The woman in question was standing in the middle of the room, sipping a cup of tea and leafing through a newspaper, when Holmes accosted her. "Mrs, Allastair," he declared, "you owe me an apology."

Mrs. Allastair looked up at him with widening eyes. "You'll excuse me, I hope," she said warily, "if I have no idea what you're talking about."Seeing me, she perked up. "Ah, Doctor Watson! Feeling better, I hope?"

"Very well indeed, thank you," I replied, but Holmes would not be put off from his point.

"You owe me an apology," he insisted, "for encouraging me to quarrel with my brother over a woman, while the entire time, the culprit who almost murdered the good Doctor Watson has been living under your very roof."

Mrs. Allastair balked at my companion, and then shook her head, standing up from the table and taking a step backwards. "My god," she said, "You're mad, sir. You're out of your mind." Beseechingly, she turned to me. "He's out of his mind," she insisted. "I have nothing to do with this. Why on earth would I set fire to my own house, for god's sake?"

"Although your conduct now speaks of a guilty conscience," Holmes corrected her, "I was in no way referring to you. Instead, I believe that the blame lies more with Mr. Alec Allastair."

"That," insisted Mrs. Allastair coldly, "is an excuse to remove my suspicions from Miss Fairchild."

"Miss Fairchild," Holmes countered, "was in custody for all of the time that the flames were tearing apart my own furniture. I believe I am making no excuses, madam, and I would be most obliged if you would call your son in to ansswer for himself."

Mrs. Allastair opened her mouth for further protestations, but they were unneccessary.

"It's all right, mother," came a voice from the doorway. "I'm here already."


	8. Chapter Eight: A Subsequent Revelation

**Author's Note: **This finishes this little case, but if you liked it, I'd love to write more. I actually have a little more adventurous one in mind, so if you're interested in reading more, drop me a review and let me know. THanks for reading!

**Chapter Eight: A Subsequent Revelation**

"Ah," said Holmes, turning on the newcomer, "Mr. Allastair. I belivee that I have you to thank for the blaze that nearly incinerated my associate. You remember, I assume, Doctor Watson, don't you?"  
"I did not," said Alec Allastair, with a staunch expression, "have any designs against either yourself or Doctor Watson, and I ws under the impression that you would be out that night."

"So you threw a burning candle into an empty house?" asked Holmes. "Did my furniture particularly offend you?"  
"I did not mean," Alec insisted, "to harm anyone."

"Indeed," said Holmes with some skepticism. "Well now, no matter what your good intentions were, you have severely endangered not only Dr. Watson and myself, but your own mother and cousin. That, I will easily admit to you, I cannot possibly understand, though the methods are quite clear in themselves.:"

Mr. Allastair looked at his mother, who was standing there with her eyes wide, and her limp arms dangling at her side in her total lack of comprehension. She reached out to him with a tremulous hand, her voice beseeching.

"Alec," she said, "Alec, you've done no such thing. It doesn't make sense, Alec, how could you have? I saw a girl in the window. Yes, that's right." More confidant, she glared at Holmes and myself, head held high in her certainty. "It was a woman who lit the fires, and not my son at all. Your case has no grounds."

Holmes nodded respectfully, "You are quite right, madam," he agreed, "in that the fire itself was started, in both cases, by a young woman. And so, I hope in only a few minutes to be able to introduce you to that very remarkable girl."

It was obvious that Mr. Alec Allastair was not a time-hardened criminal, and that he had absolutely no knack for crime. His face blanched terribly when Holmes s poke of the woman that he hoped to find. Mrs. Allastair looked quite satisfied, but Alec, glancing around and noticing that Holmes attention was again focused out the door on the road from which he had come, attempted to slink upstairs and out of sight.

"Mr. Allastair,"said Holmes, without turning, "it would benefit you to stay where I can see you. As you have no doubt already recognized, anything that occurs while you are in my sight cannot be committed to your responsibility."

Alec stopped, and looked to me beseechingly, as if seeing that I was the more sympathetic soul in the room. No doubt he failed to remember that it was I who had nearly perished at his hands, and I looked away from him, recoiling from giving him any sort of comfort.

"Now," continued Holmes, "you woudl do well to let me in on the matter before the official police, if you have any desire for leniency on the part of your friend. You will now take us to to where she lives, or perhaps wehre she is staying, and we will sort out the entire matter together."

Mr. Allastair saw the reason in this, and knew that it was his only option. With a brooding, sullen face, he stalked to the door, and led us out on to the street.

Shortly after leaving his mother's sight, Mr. Allastair turned sharply and made for the side of the house, over towards the window which now lay open. At first, we saw nothing, but as we drew closer, I realized that there was a young woman seated, or rather, crouched down beneath the window, not looking in, but trying, it seemed, to listen to the proceedings.

"Sarah," murmured Mr. Allastair, "it's all up, now. We're finished."

The girl started, and spun around to find myself, Mr. Allastair, and Holmes looming over her. She did not scream, but opened her mouth as if to speak. Then, seeing the closed expression on Alec Allastair's face, she let out a little resigned breath, and got slowly to her feet. Mr. Allastair reached down to help her up, and the two of them stood together, facing the two of us.

"Miss Sarah Carraway, I believe," said Holmes politely. "I have no qualms about congratulating you. You are a very talented actress."

Miss Carraway was obviously torn between blushing in shame, or pretending to be completely confused by Holmes' comment. My friend did not wait for her to react, but instead sat himself down on the grass beneath the window, and folded his legs around each other, hands resting on his lap. "Come, Watson," He said, "we have much to discuss, and I would prefer to stay outside the window, as I believe that the persistent Mrs. Allastair has gone upstairs so as to await our return, and to surprise therefore." He patted the patch of ground beside him, and I seated myself where he suggested.

"It is my custom," my companion began, "to unravel the case on my own, and to ask you to break in upon my narrative when I go wrong in any way. Does that suit you?" The two young people only nodded, and Holmes smiled. "Capital," he said, "Very good."

"Mr. Allastair," he commenced, "and Mr. Daniel Fairchild met each other in America, while in the midst of their studies. It was not long before they shared a bond over their mutual family ties to London, and although they may have been fast friends, they were certainly close aquaintances."

Holmes paused, and looked at Alec Allastair, but the young man had cast his eyes down upon the ground, and was plucking at the grass, so that Holmes assumed he had touched upon the truth, and, looking up, continued.

"One day," he continued, "Your friend Mr. Fairchild flew into a rage while the two of you were talking. Perhaps he was drunk, and let the facts loose not entirely of his own volition. He informed you that his sister, our infamous Miss Anne, had taken to a certain Mycroft Holmes, and that he did not at all favor the marriage. You decided, for some reason that I confess I am ignorant of, that you would take control of the situation, and that you would scare away Miss Fairchild's unwelcome suitor before the wedding had taken place."

Here, he stopped, and turned his gaze on Sarah Carraway. "At this point," he said, with some admiration, and yet no kindness in his voice, "came your debut You, being a woman who was very similarly shaped to Miss Fairchild, were employed by your own lover, Mr. Alec Allastair, to impersonate Miss Fairchild. With some of her cast-off clothes, and a wig of Miss Fairchild's own hair, given to you by her brother, you made a perfect picture of the lady. And yet," he said, "you discovered that your plan had backfired. Rather than frightening Mycroft away from Miss Fairchild, the lady in question was handed over to the police, and Mycroft looked to me for assistance. Hoping to create enough confusion to give no proof of her guilt, and yet to make her an unwelcome housemate, you then turned your attentions to myself and doctor Watson."

"We never meant to hurt anyone," insisted Sarah Carraway, with some fear in her drawn face. "We only wanted to frighten you. We never wanted to-!"

"As I have said once before," murmured Holmes coldly, "it is your actions, and not your intentions, that speak rather loudly in this case."

All four of us waited in silence for a moment, the young couple quiet and unsure of where they stood, myself impressed as always, Holmes unperturbed, but eager. After a moment, it was Miss Sarah's turn to speak, and she did so with eyes half-closed, as if too afraid to meet my friend's gaze.

"Please," she said quietly, "don't blame Alec for this, it was on my behalf that he committed the crimes in the first place."

"And yet," noted Holmes, "it is Mr. Fairchild that has all of the motive, and on his request or recommendation, I believe, that Alec acted."

Miss Carraway shook her head. "Daniel Fairchild," she started, "is a very wealthy man, considerably more so than he would like you to believe. He has won a great deal at cards in America, and though generally honest in his ways, he has a bit of a malicious streak, and a taste for gambling, not only with cards, but now with the happiness of his sister, as you've seen."

She cleared her throat a little, and looked to Alec for support. He seemed surprised at her willingness, and yet unable to offer anything of his own. "Alec and I," she continued, "wanted to be married, but had not the money. We knew that if we did a favor for Mr. Fairchild, he'd repay us by granting us the funds to get married, and that we needn't tell Mrs. Allastair anything about it, since she knew nothing about the aquaintance in the first place.

"And so it was prearranged," Holmes interjected, "that Mr. Fairchild would recompense you for your actions."

Miss Carraway nodded. She looked at me, and clasped her white hands in front of her face, her lips pursed in worry and sorrow. "I am sorry," she said, holding out a hand to me. "I am so terribly sorry."

I was almost moved to pity for the creature, but Holmes stood abruptly, before I could return any gesture of understanding. "And now," he said, "I shall walk across and introduce myself to Mr. Fairchild, who I believe has been retained by my brother now for some time." He stood to go, and the couple stared at him, shocked at their good fortune.

"Sir?" asked Mr. Allastair. Holmes turned back to regard him for a long moment before he spoke.

"Your fate," he said, "is entirely in the hands of Doctor Watson,and for that I believe you may thank any lucky stars you have. It is he who has been most injured by these attempts on your part, and I shall let him pass judgement over both of you."

I was startled, and stood up, stepping back from the pair with an intake of breath. "I should like to do nothing," I said hurriedly. "Seeing as there is really no harm done, after all." I attempted to look sternly on Alec and Miss Sarah, but they were such a pitiful pair, Miss Sarah's face now in Mr. Allastair's shirt, that I could do nothing.

"Well," I said again, "I should be glad of your word that you shall no longer associate yourselves with this Mr. Fairchild."

My friend laughed, not cruelly, and rolled his eyes in my direction. "You are benevolence itself, Watson," he said. "Oh, and, one more thing." He waved a hand at Alec Allastair. "I should very much like you to do your best to refurnish my Baker Street rooms. I do not very much like the smell of rotting wood, and I have recently been hoping for a change."


End file.
